


This Game Of Cruelty

by solversonlou



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Tyrell Wellick, Choking, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Homophobic Language, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slurs, Slut Shaming, Spit As Lube, Spit Kink, Tyrell Is A Slut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26084824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solversonlou/pseuds/solversonlou
Summary: "He's not gonna fuck you," Robot growls through gritted teeth, his blunt nails digging deep enough to leave crescent shaped moons on the Swedish man's skin. It's somehow rougher than the closed fist that Elliot had connected to Tyrell's jaw, the rebuttal of another lovesick confession, Elliot having fazed in momentarily, panicked and terrified, not knowing what else to do.Robot gives Tyrell what Elliot will never give him.Set between 3x01 and 3x04.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Tyrell Wellick, Mr. Robot/Tyrell Wellick
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	This Game Of Cruelty

Tyrell is on his back, sprawled out, a dull thump at the base of his neck that rattles around his skull. The feeling is pinched off by the grip of a hand, fingers digging into the meat of his cheeks, and as he gazes up with half lidded eyes, he's met with the face of Elliot, stone cold and glowering down at him.

Through the delirium, Tyrell grins, lips stretched over bloody teeth which shine under the dim light of the Red Wheelbarrow basement. 

"He's not gonna fuck you," Robot growls through gritted teeth, his blunt nails digging deep enough to leave crescent shaped moons on the Swedish man's skin. It's somehow rougher than the closed fist that Elliot had connected to Tyrell's jaw, the rebuttal of another lovesick confession, Elliot having fazed in momentarily, panicked and terrified, not knowing what else to do. Robot shakes Tyrell's face, knee digging into the meat of his thigh, holding him down despite the size difference between the two of them. "You pathetic piece of shit."

Tyrell's eyes, previously wide and brimming with admiration for the man above him, shift, recognition drawing across his face. He's always found the situation so confusing, not knowing who is in charge and when. He knows now, that the man above him is the same man who pointed a gun at him in the arcade all those months ago, but he looks like Elliot, sounds like Elliot. Tyrell frowns, brows drawn together.

A grin cracks across Robot's face as he nods, the fingers of his free hand gripping onto Tyrell's forearm, pinning him down to the cold concrete. He chuckles, tilting his head, eyes dragging down the man's trapped body, noting the way he isn't fighting back. 

Tyrell's throat bobs, swallowing hard when Robot's eyes meet his again, sharp and boring into him, like he sees him clearer than anyone ever has before.

"He's fucking crazy, if you ask me," Robot's grip loosens on Tyrell's face, and the Swede gasps, mouth going slack in that stupid way that it does sometimes. Like it did back at the arcade, after Robot had almost shot him. Robot had wanted to press the barrel of the gun into the mouth back then. He wants to shove even more into it now. 

Robot's fingers stroke across Tyrell's cheek, drawing a small whimper from him, the calloused pad of his thumb settling on Tyrell's bottom lip.

Tyrell's tongue darts out instinctively, but Robot pulls his thumb away and a small whine leaves the back of Tyrell's throat, his free knee dragging up, thigh pressed against Robot's side, trying to get some form of contact besides the weight of Robot pressing down against him.

"Elliot..." Tyrell's breathless moan of the name of the man whose image he sees above him is cut short, garbled by the sudden presence of a thumb pressing into the cavern of his mouth. His eyes fly open wide, startled by the scratch of Robot's nail against the flesh of his tongue. He almost gags around it, hands curling into themselves, limbs tightening, as if Robot had pressed a button that made his brain short-circuit, rendering him useless. 

Not that Robot thinks there's much rattling around in the Swede's head anyway.

"Fucking moron," Robot grunts, shifting his weight off Tyrell's thigh, planting his knees either side of the man's waist, his thumb still pressed in the slick heat of his mouth. He knows Elliot would never allow this, but Elliot isn't here now, it's just him. His eyes flicker across the lines of Tyrell's face, the blue wetness of his eyes, the tears that Robot has witnessed time and time again. Robot inhales, jaw clenching as he shoves another two fingers in Tyrell's mouth, earning a choked sob from the man. "I'm not him, you stupid asshole."

Tyrell's lashes are wet against his flushed cheeks, eyes squeezed shut. Everything about the man above him is Elliot, his face, his voice, the weight of his fingers in his mouth. He doesn't understand. He'll never understand.

"Christ, you still don't get it, do you?" Robot shoves another finger in, hooking them over the row of Tyrell's bottom teeth, pushing his jaw open, the pink expanse of the back of his throat wet and open, tongue lolling uselessly above Robot's fingers. "He'd never do this. No matter how much you begged him. And I bet you'd beg him, wouldn't you?"

Another muffled noise leaves Tyrell, his body beginning to twist beneath Robot, both his legs drawing up, ankles rolling as he scrambles to get his feet planted on the ground. It's strikingly similar to when he'd choked out Sharon Knowles, only this time, he's the one who feels like he can't breathe. He whines when he feels a sudden emptiness, eyes opening, tears spilling out of them, salty against his cheeks. 

Robot's fingers, slick with Tyrell's spit, grip at the root of his hair, tugging roughly, tilting his head back, drawing a hiss from the back of Tyrell's throat.

"You gonna beg me?" Robot says it like a challenge rather than a request, gripping hard against the strands of hair between his fingers, dull pain radiating through Tyrell's skull again. "You gonna beg me like you'd beg him?"

"Elliot, please," Tyrell stutters out, fingers scrambling against Robot's sides, gripping onto his jacket. In reality, he's grabbing the black cotton of Elliot's hoodie, feeling the friction of Elliot's black jeans against the material of his slacks, his cock having hardened the moment Elliot's fingers had probed passed his lips. "Please, please. I need you."

Tyrell feels the back of his skull hit the concrete again, knocking him dizzy. He barely has a chance to register it before he feels the burn of his lips, stretching over Robot's fingers again, his cries muffled.

"Stop calling me that, you dumb whore," Robot growls, animalistic as he shoves his fingers deeper into Tyrell's mouth, this time far back enough to make him gag violently, throat restricting, body tensing tight beneath Robot, fingers clawing at his hips. 

Robot rocks down against him, his own cock straining against his jeans. God, Elliot needs to get laid properly. He's so touch starved it's almost laughable. 

How Elliot couldn't be into this, having someone who's admittedly piss fucking annoying, but worships the ground he walks on, open and begging, squirming beneath him, is frankly beyond Mr. Robot.

"Christ, I wonder how many cocks you've had in you," Robot is far beyond caring at this point about how blunt he is. That sort of stopped the moment he decided he was going to fuck Tyrell. "How many sleazy businessmen you had, huh? All so you could climb up that corporate ladder, and look where that got you. All that come in your guts and for what?"

Tyrell's hips rock up almost instinctively, a sob leaving the back of his throat. He squeezes his thighs, tight around Robot's waist, trying to hook his legs fully around the man. It's somewhat helpful, but it's not enough.

"Whore," Robot hisses, fingers dripping with saliva as he pulls them out of Tyrell's mouth, letting the Swede breathe.

And Tyrell does just that, gasping, eyes flying open, coughing, spit flying out across his mouth and cheek. He looks disgusting, and it's just what Robot wants him to look like, his gaze hot as it drills down into him. Tyrell's bearings are barely there when he feels a palm, broad and hot, digging against the hard length of him beneath his slacks. Pain, sharp and heavy, shoots through his already aching cock, up his abdomen and spreads through his spine as it arches from the concrete. 

The fabric of his shirt is damp, hot with sweat as it clings to his back. He has a feeling Elliot-- or rather-- whoever this form of Elliot is, won't remove his shirt. He won't feel the cool relief of the concrete, he'll be as covered as possible, like he is when the other suits had ruined him, in high rise buildings and mens room stalls. 

Only, Elliot isn't a suit, but this man has the demeanor of one, a higher up that wants to use Tyrell to his own end, only Tyrell isn't obeying because he has to, because it'll gain him something, and the man above him can tell.

Tyrell is doing this because he wants to, because he worships the man above him, adores him.

The dry fingers on Robot's left hand tug on Tyrell's belt, his breath hot as it hits the Swede's face, "Take it off."

Tyrell complies almost immediately, and it's pathetic, it really is, how he scrambles desperately, unbuckling his belt and shoving down his slacks and underwear in a messy but quick motion, freeing the aching, leaking length of his cock, exposing his red hot skin to the cold environment.

Robot doesn't do him any favors, doesn't even brush his knuckles against Tyrell's dick as a courtesy, doesn't give him a single sense of pleasure in that regard. He wants him open and he wants it quickly, saliva-slick fingers pushing apart the meat of Tyrell's ass cheeks, the Swede's lower back lifting from the ground, knowing what to do almost as if it's a muscle memory.

"Christ, you little fucking bitch," Robot grunts, shoving a finger past the tight ring of muscle. It earns him a gasp from Tyrell, whose fingers flitter across his biceps, gripping hard. It feels like resistance at first, but then Tyrell's grip is loosening, and he's sinking down onto his finger, a whimper leaving him, head leaning back against the cold, hard ground. "You filthy fucking whore. Put on that suit and tie and think you're a real big shot, but you're just a slut."

Tyrell whines, hips rolling, cock straining against the material of his shirt, leaving a damp patch of pre-come against the tails of it. He slaps a hand against the concrete, voice ragged as he begs, "Please. Please. More."

Robot doesn't hesitate at all, shoving two more fingers into the man. It's rough and not at all safe. He'll probably tear him in some way, but Robot doesn't care, and neither does Tyrell, it seems, begging like his life depends on it, like he'll die if he doesn't get Robot's cock inside of him.

"Bet they prepared you better than I did, though," Robot trails off. He's mostly riffing at this point, three fingers stretching Tyrell open. The saliva is drying rapidly, and although he wants to make this rough, it's not enough to accommodate the width of him just yet, so he lifts Tyrell's chin with his dry hand, getting him to look at him. He offers his palm, open. "Spit. Good boy."

Tyrell's head lulls, delirious, blue eyes dark and half lidded as saliva drools out of his red lips. He doesn't even spit, the action too much of an effort for him, his mouth wet enough from Robot's fingers from earlier. It's disgusting, and Robot can imagine he'd taste like vodka if he actually kissed him, tasted Tyrell's mouth, but he won't offer him the courtesy.

Instead, he drips the saliva between Tyrell's cheek, pulling the fingers inside of him out, a low groan leaving Tyrell as he blinks languidly down at the movement between his legs. 

Robot presses more fingers inside of him, three from one hand and two from another, curls them in a way that makes Tyrell's cock twitch, pulling more noises out of him. It takes a little while of this, stretching and opening Tyrell up, watching the way his jaw goes slack, eyelashes against his cheeks when Robot hits a certain spot inside of him.

Tyrell doesn't realize Robot is finished preparing him until he hears the clink of a belt buckle, and when he looks up, gaze heavy, he sees Elliot, unzipping his jeans, shifting them a little around the bony expanse of his hips. Tyrell is transfixed, watching as Elliot pulls his cock through the slit of his boxers, and it's better than Tyrell could ever imagine.

He's bigger than Tyrell had imagined, the head of him dark, leaking with pre-come, and Tyrell actually gasps, drool dripping down his chin like he's in a fucking cartoon or something. He doesn't even realize how desperate it is, how pathetic he's being.

Robot spits into his own palm. If he was taking this slow, he'd grab Tyrell's hair and force him onto his cock, make him take him in that pretty pink mouth of his, but he won't, not now. He strokes his cock, slicking it with spit, teeth gritting at the sensation. He's so close to the edge, just from watching Tyrell squirm and beg underneath him. He won't come yet, not until he's left the man incoherent.

"On your back," Robot instructs, and Tyrell complies immediately, elbows buckling beneath him, his sweat damp back pressed against the ground. Robot shifts, jean clad knees scraping against the concrete as he grabs one of Tyrell's thighs, calloused fingers digging into the muscle, brushing against the soft hairs on his skin. 

Tyrell's other leg snakes around Robot's hip unprompted, and Robot meets his dark gaze, taking in the way he's chewing his bottom lip, lashes fluttering, cheeks wet and red. The sight of it makes Robot's cock twitch, his fingers curling around the base of himself.

"Faggot," the word slips out like it's nothing, a gut reaction to seeing Tyrell like this, open and wanting.

The white of Tyrell's eyes are stark, wide as his mouth parts and he stares at the man before him. A breath leaves him, eyes pricking with tears, and his gaze drags between Elliot's face and Elliot's hand, where it's wrapped around his cock. Tyrell whimpers, "Elliot..."

Robot tugs Tyrell's leg, pulling him closer, spreading him open, cock sliding between his cheeks.

The gasp that leaves Tyrell is just as delicious as the noises he's been making so far, even more so, desperate and raw as Robot presses into him, feels the tight heat of him enveloping his aching cock.

"Stop calling me that," Robot grunts, eyes screwed shut as he sinks fully into Tyrell, fingers gripping around his hips, hard enough to no doubt leave bruises on the pale flesh. He rocks his hips back slightly, revels in the way Tyrell's head cranes back, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat before he lets out a groan as Robot pushes back into him. "Christ, you really have done this before."

Tyrell nods, even though it's not a question. He's open now, confessing to things as if Elliot was a priest, but Robot's the one who hears the words. Elliot would never stop to listen, would never fuck him, not like Robot is.

"Not like this, though," Robot draws his hips back, almost leaving Tyrell empty as the Swede whines, fingers scrambling for purchase on Robot's biceps. Robot slams his hips back in, rough and unforgiving, feels the way Tyrell's thigh trembles beneath his grip, the way the heel of his shoe digs into his back. Groaning, Robot's head spin a little, eyes closed. "They fucked you good, but they weren't me."

"No," Tyrell gasps, nodding his head, tears dripping down his cheeks. He clasps onto Robot hard, like if he let go he'd surely disappear. He opens his eyes, sees Elliot's face, so close, feels his breath on his cheek, his hair brushing his temple. Tyrell wants to kiss him. He bites his own lip instead, rolls his hips down, trying to get more of him, even though he's pressed to the hilt. "No, they're not you. You're so good. So good, El--"

Tyrell's eyes screw shut, the sudden presence of fingers, hard around his throat, cutting his words off. He tries to protest, but his windpipe restricts under the weight, fingers digging hard into Robot's biceps. He kicks Robot's back, and it's met by a tighter grip around his throat, and his eyes fly open, blurry with tears as they gaze at Robot.

He sees Elliot's face, sees the way his pupils are blown, how his full lips stretch over his teeth, smiling. 

Tyrell's cock aches, moving against his abdomen, his fingers relaxing their grip on Elliot's arms. 

Robot's own grip loosens, and Tyrell splutters, almost crying out, head turned away from the man above him, spittle flying out of his lips. A dark chuckle leaves the back of Robot's throat, basking in how easy it is to manipulate the man, how easily he gives into him. Robot pulls his hips back, then slams them back in again, and Tyrell sobs, throat raw.

"You dirty fucking faggot," Robot hisses, lips pressed to the shell of Tyrell's ear, hips rocking in and out of him, picking up a messy rhythm, skin slapping against skin. 

Tyrell makes a noise with each movement, whines at the words dripping out of Robot's mouth. It's Elliot's voice that he hears, and he knows they aren't his words, but they bury deep inside of Tyrell's brain, shame and heat spreading through his gut.

"They ever call you that?" Robot gets a fistful of Tyrell's fringe, forcing his head back so he can get a good look at him. He's crying. Of course he's crying. He's always crying, but this isn't the angry crying he does when he's throwing a tantrum, it's an open neediness. A relief, almost, finally having Robot fulfill what he's always wanted from Elliot. "Call you a whore? A slut?"

Tyrell nods, sobs, "Yes. Yes. Not-- it's not the same."

"How?" Robot inquires, curiosity getting the better of him. He can indulge this, it just helps guide him along as well as the tight heat. 

"It's you," Tyrell whimpers, eyes opening, meeting Robot's gaze. He's trembling, one hand palming uselessly at his own cock before giving up, letting the head of it scrape against the buttons of his shirt, against the fabric of Elliot's hoodie/Robot's jacket. "Love you. Fuck, I love you so much. So much, Elliot."

There's that name again, but Robot doesn't punish him this time. In fact, the words trigger something else inside of him.

"Jesus Christ," Robot exhales through his nostrils, moving his hips in circles, drawing guttural little gasps from Tyrell, hitting the spot he knows will be enough to push him over the edge if he carries on. "You're fucking crazy."

"No," Tyrell shakes his head, hair falling across his forehead, slick with sweat. The whole of him is on fire, clothes too tight, too restricting, and he keeps feeling the press of Elliot's cock against his prostate, his balls tightening at each touch. "No, no, I do. Love you. Love you."

Robot's eyes close as Tyrell trails off, English words turning into Swedish, phrases Robot doesn't understand but figures are something similar to what he'd already been saying. Robot is too far gone now, unable to speak, unable to muster the insults and slurs he'd been directing at the man beneath him. Nails digging hard into the flesh of Tyrell's hips, Robot can feel the familiar heat, tight in his abdomen. 

It's overwhelming, Tyrell's incoherent words, the way he looks when Robot briefly opens his eyes, watches the way his cock bounces against his stomach, the way his hair is a mess, his pink mouth wet, gasping, eyelashes against his cheeks, tears still spilling out.

Robot comes, hard and hot, a wave that crashes over him as his hips still, pressed deep inside of Tyrell, forehead pressed against the damp shoulder of his shirt.

The cry that leaves Tyrell is loud in Robot's ear, breath hot, but Robot isn't really aware of it, riding through the waves of his orgasm, fingertips bruising Tyrell's skin, breath ragged as it shakes his rib cage.

Tyrell takes the closeness, the anchoring of Robot's body against his own, as an opportunity, hips rolling erratically, cock rutting against the bunched up fabric of Elliot's hoodie, the zip cold and rough against the length of him. 

Robot doesn't care that Tyrell keeps saying Elliot's name, he's still trying to catch his breath. He just lets Tyrell grind against him, waits for the inevitable as his slowly softening cock twitches inside of Tyrell, the over sensitivity almost too much.

Tyrell comes with a choked out sob, fingers splayed across Robot's shoulder blades, thighs squeezing around his hips, spilling in hot, thick ropes between them.

Pulling out of Tyrell, Robot shudders, arms shaking slightly, eyes blinking open. His glasses are askew but he can still see as he holds Tyrell's thighs in his hands, the man's ass cheeks spread apart, his softening cock stirring as Robot's come drips out of him, his hole twitching.

Tyrell's skull thumps as it hits the concrete, his head rolling back, limbs loose like jello as he sinks back against the ground. He's covered in sweat and spit and all kinds of fluids, mouth agape as he breathes, chest heaving, eyes screwed shut.

Robot watches him for a moment from his hunched over position, knuckles pressed against the ground, and he realises it's pretty primal, like a lion looking over a fresh kill. 

"Thank you," Tyrell says, and Robot doesn't notice at first, not until Tyrell is sitting back up on his elbows and gazing at him, blue eyes brimming with adoration. "Thank you, Elliot."

Robot can feel him. It's a distant buzz, the hazy edges of Elliot. He won't let him through, not yet. He'd be furious. Violated. The thought of it makes Robot feel a little sick, but he couldn't help himself. It was protection, in a way. Better satisfy the man before him before Tyrell do something like shoot them again.

"Get cleaned up," Robot instructs, stoic.

\- - -

"I once thought you to be a God... I loved you."

Tyrell feels Elliot's hands around his throat again, but it's not Elliot.

Although, it wasn't him then, either.

Elliot fades into existence, sees Angela, sees Tyrell. He fades back out again.

**Author's Note:**

> mostly for my twitter whorell mutuals
> 
> just wanted to write tyrell getting slut shamed by robot don't @ me x
> 
> title is from journal of ardency by class actress


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